A Puppet Motions Only in Response to Stimulus

The cheese beside me is orange and white and crumbly and probably should be completely moldy by now, but really is not. Or maybe i just did not look close enough: by now my eyes have refocused onto the cucumber melon vitamin e lotion, the small white pencil box, the silver paperclip. Whir, whir, whir. The sound lingers from the fan that devotedly blows cold air upstairs; up the sixth level stairs. It's dark outside, night-time. There are wet looking streaks on the window, sort of sparkly against the black. It must have rained earlier; maybe it still is.

The sudden, shrill ring of the telephone pierces the not-exactly-quiet silence of the room. Two voices saying hello, a few lines of chatter, laughing, two voices saying goodbye. The room resumes its current position, with the addition of a dull, monotonous dial tone pulsating through it now. I feel my hand click the phone back into its place, simultaneously realizing one of the voices was my own.

Strange. i do not even remember moving, much less the words i've just spoken. The thought of figuring out who i was just talking to and what was said vaguely crosses my mind, but then extinguishes itself just as quickly, just as insignificantly. Whir, whir, whir. A moth, a fly, a mosquito circle in the light fixture above, dizzily spinning around and around. My head is dizzy too, but it is not from sickness. The window again. A vehicle passes, its driver probably headed to work. Should be morning by now. Again vaguely, i recall my own work that i have to get to today, my own job that waits neatly in its place for at least a few more hours. There are people to attend to, places to get to, courses to teach.

Whir, whir, whir.

Something is itchy on my back behind my head, and i am slightly aware of the numbness my foot is experiencing from being held in such a locked position for, what must be, a long while. i reach out and let a single finger slip up from my ankle to my thigh, feeling smooth, unbreaking skin the whole way. i stop and let it fall back. Do the same with a strand of hair, with my arm, with my forehead. Reminds me of something, though i am not sure what. Memories do not really exist. They just seem like stories someone must have read to me a long, long time ago, probably when i was really quite young.

Did any of this used to mean anything? Did any of this matter, signify something, become of importance in some way or another? Were they always just such raw motions, or were they ever actual responses to meaningful stimulus?